


(in)distinctiveness

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blind Dean, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was eight when a werewolf attacked him and robbed him of his sight. Years later, he is more or less content, living with his brother, but the road to get there was one hell of a bumpy ride. This tells the story of how they managed it; how they were and how they are now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(in)distinctiveness

**Author's Note:**

> the day has come, i'm posting my last rbb of the year! this was the first one i claimed, because, how could i not? the art is absolutely gorgeous and i still catch myself just staring at it. nchesters is an amazing artist to work with, too, and as if that wasn't enough, she's very easy to talk to and it's thanks to her that i had so much fun with this one.
> 
> it's written in a way i've never tried before, hopefully you guys will like it! i certainly enjoyed writing it.
> 
> thank you to eve for the beta! you rock my world, bb.

Dean’s fingers trace the fabric lightly. He had just buttoned up his shirt and now he tests the material of his suit, rubs his fingertips against it. It’s fine wool, one of their very few expensive suits, Dean guesses, but then again, this would be the best occasion to use it. 

Dean takes the suit from where Sam had hung it over a chair last night before going to sleep, knowing Dean would be the first one to wake up on a day like this although he cannot see the light of the morning fight its way in, and throws it over his shoulders quickly. He’s familiar with the movements; his hands run over the sleeves for reassurance, straightening the fabric over the shirt.

He registers a quiet muffled sound in the background. Doesn’t take him long to figure that one out, either – Sam rolling around in the sheets just before waking up is music to Dean’s ears, a song he has been listening to for years now, ever since they retired and allowed themselves to settle down. This is the sound, the quiet movement of the sheets around Sam’s body, that replaces the image of Sam’s sleepy face in Dean’s mind. Every little scratch the sheets slide across Sam’s skin, naked underneath them, is sleep being blinked away bit by bit, not the blinking itself, as it is for people whose eyes shine with color and don’t stare with white-washed nothing.

“Morning,” Dean speaks up when the muffling stops and the bed creaks as Sam’s body comes awake. 

“Mornin’,” Sam echoes and Dean can hear him sigh, his ears trained to catch every little breath his brother may let slip out of his mouth.

Dean knows better than to interrupt Sam’s morning routine – the man is almost forty now, but if you try to talk to him before he wakes up properly, you are doomed, cross his heart and hope to die Dean has promised multiple times not to push.

Ties are a tricky thing, even after all these years of having his hands and ears for eyes. He can wrap it around his neck, but no matter how many times Sam reads the online manual for the Windsor knot, his fingers never cooperate enough to quite get it.

Soon enough, Sam battles out of the bed and his hands gently cup Dean’s.

“Lemme,” he instructs and Dean’s fingers willingly slip down the sides of Sam’s hands and down his forearms and down to his waist, resting there. Dean slowly and quietly rubs circles into Sam’s hips, feeling the rough skin and absorbing the heat, while Sam works on tying Dean’s tie properly.

After he’s done, and he’s done awfully quickly, because his fingers are awfully skilled, he runs his palms up Dean’s neck until they cup his cheeks. They both lean in to steal a kiss and feeling the hot skin of Sam’s sides under his fingers, Dean wishes this was a different day and he could afford the calmness of morning sex. 

“We need to get going,” Sam interrupts his thought process as if he knew and as if he wasn’t the one who woke up late. “The funeral’s at nine and it’s almost half past seven.”

“I know. I’ve been up since five,” Dean confesses, catching Sam’s hand in his own as it goes to leave his cheek. “I wish we didn’t have to go.”

“It’s Dad, Dean,” Sam sighs and his hand slides out of Dean’s. It’s laughable, although arguably it would be a bitter laugh, that it’s Sam fighting for their attendance, even though he has always been the one on the offensive, voicing his thoughts on John Winchester’s parenting and hunting even at his age.

“I’m not saying I’m not gonna go,” Dean reassures him. “I’m just sayin’.”

“I know it sucks.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean agrees and knowing precisely where Sam’s voice is coming from, trained to guess the right direction and be right, familiar with their height difference, he catches Sam’s lips in a second kiss. This is the one that will help him shake family friends’ hands, this is the one that will help hold him up. 

Dean’s fingers go down to the watch on his hand and he flips it open, briefly touching the dial.

“Go get dressed,” he suggests, placing the protective glass back over his watch. After all, it is a funeral, and while he does not want to go, he sure as hell does not want to be

 

_late today. Dad was supposed to show up at seven, but when Dean squinted up at the old clock probably glued to the wall so that thugs staying at this shady motel wouldn’t steal it and sell it for cheap, he saw it was almost eight. His tummy was starting to hurt. It was summer, but the sun was already setting outside and Sammy fell asleep a while ago._

_Dean didn’t want to wake him but he wanted to – especially when he heard howling outside and it clawed at his guts with long sharp nails. It sounded close. It sounded like someone was knocking on the door, howling through the key hole._

_Dean, with his gut squeezed and little fists clenched together, slowly approached the door. The howling had resonated within him and even though the silence continued to drag on now, interrupted only by Sam’s sleep-noises, Dean felt jumpy and if he weren’t proud, he would have admitted to being scared. He didn’t like being alone, and when he bowed slightly to look through the key hole before opening the door, he half-expected an eye to stare back at him, pupils black but all-knowing._

_He saw nothing. Nothing except the empty motel parking lot in the slowly setting dark._

_With more ease, his still sweaty palms cupped the doorknob and he opened the door, expecting the slight summer breeze to wash over him and calm him down, whisper that Dad will be back soon and they’ll watch football on the old TV._

_Little did he know what monster crept through the shadows and towards the door; he had no idea until it lunched towards him and shoved his little eight-years-old body down, down, to the hard floor, with a loud thump that woke little Sammy up._

_Dean felt the weight on him, vaguely realized this was the monster his Dad was after, the werewolf scratching the trees raw, about to scratch Dean’s throat open the very same way. Dean knew things, even at eight. Perhaps it was normal, picking up on what Dad’s machetes meant, what those pictures of seemingly overgrown dogs represented. He had one of that kind over him now, its paws pushing at his chest, claws out._

_Were Dean not gripped in the iron fist of absolute, inescapable fear, he might have realized that the wetness dumping his shirt was his own blood, drawn out by the animal’s claws. Then again, at least he never realized he wet himself as well._

_There was another howl, delivered right to his frightened, frozen face, spiraling up into a crescendo when Sam’s loud screaming joined in and danced with the howl somewhere mid-air._

_At the back of his mind, perhaps, Dean could hear the gunshot, but even if his ears ever registered the mind-boggling sound, it got lost immediately because of the pain that followed. It was excruciating – not that Dean’s brain knew that word or could operate at all in that moment. Everything grew quiet and the only thing existing was the pain, and the scream ripping through Dean’s mind, although he could not tell whether his mouth was open and actually producing it, or whether it was only his mind crying out for help._

_The werewolf, shot in the side with a nice rounded silver bullet, leapt again and in its death, his claws slashed across Dean’s face, tearing the skin; epidermis to dermis and so easily to subcutaneous tissue like it was nothing, like it wasn’t holding Dean together. The claws ran deep, caught on Dean’s eyes and ripped further, across his face, the damage and the blood, so much blood, filling his eyes._

_All Dean felt was pain, pain covering his body, he could feel it in the tips of his toes as they curled and his body trashed, and his world was black, so black like perhaps the eye staring back at him from the key hole would have been, black like the devil like the space beneath his bed like the merciless weight of the monster above him as it collapsed on top of him, the fur of its head leaning in to the deep bleeding wound on Dean’s face, dipped in blood._

_Dean’s mouth opened in a gasp, the same thick filthy blood slipping in and coloring his teeth and poisoning his tongue, and he yelled, he now yelled unable to move, he yelled once and after that Dean could not_

 

buckle his seatbelt properly because his hands are shaking hard enough to make it a nearly impossible task.

Dean wills his fingers to move and steady, and the quiet click of the seatbelt being put in place, across Dean’s chest, barely even echoes through the car. With silly nostalgia, he briefly remembers the days he spent in John’s Chevrolet, little and with no seatbelt, staring out at the sky, its color now having faded since losing his sight at eight.

“Put some music on,” he requests when Sam’s seatbelt snaps in place as well and Dean hears him put the key in the ignition, about to twist it and start the engine.

Sam hums in response and while Dean itches and fidgets trapped in his suit, he turns on the radio. Dean’s fingers are now back to calm – after all, it is not his first funeral, he had burned many bodies back then when they still hunted, even after losing his sight. He doesn’t remember the bodies and he certainly can’t recall the solemn look on his brother’s face, but he remembers the heat radiating out of open graves as they set it on fire, remembers the way years old bones and rotten flesh reek.

At least there won’t be that smell this time. He is almost glad their father is getting a civilized funeral, not a hectic burning after a hunt. It’s this close to easy to believe he died of a heart attack, not because a ghost slammed him against a wall and a rusty iron pipe drew right through his heart. What an accident, truly.

Dean remembers the call they received in the middle of the night, telling them of their father’s death, and he realizes they are still lingering in the same silence that has settled on them upon hearing the news.

Suddenly eager for the funeral, Dean believes the silence will lift after it’s done. He knows he will need to shake many hands beforehand – family friends, fellow hunters. They will perhaps spare him a pitying look -- _oh, the scars are still on your face_ \-- but his sunglasses will protect his white eyes from being seen and at least there’s that. There is comfort to this. Even to John’s death – at least that’s done now. Won’t happen again.

Sam’s car parts from the curb and as they turn left, nearing the funeral home, morning sun falls upon Dean’s face through the window, warming it, and one song turns into another.

Sam next to him huffs out a laugh. “Neat.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Pretty sure The Who were Dad’s favorite.”

“I’m sorry for the way he treated you,” Sam adds, his comment unwanted above anything else, although it is, as always, meant to comfort.

“Sam, don’t,” Dean tries. They’ve had this conversation countless times, Dean trying to calm Sam’s bitterness – when they were teenagers and Dean still shook if a spoon slipped out of his fingers after he had banged it against the plate, not seeing where it went, only able to hug himself in panic because he was the only thing he knew; when they were in their twenties, Sam taking care of the deep cut on Dean’s neck after a knife was thrown at him and he couldn’t buck away; after they retired and Dean stubbed his toe and joked about his sight – although werewolf jokes never have been permitted. And John was never there for any of it.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles and cuts the next turn with less care than before, “You know how I feel about that and I can’t think of Dad without remembering it as well.”

“I know.” Dean places his hand on Sam’s thigh, this time not in order to distract him but to let him know that they are both, after all, here and relatively healthy. Not scar-less, definitely not Dean, but here nonetheless. “But he did the best he could, and it’s his funeral, so let’s not.”

“Leaving us so often with you still tied to bed is not the best he could,” Sam says barely above a whisper, and Dean decides to take it as Sam offering him an out – he takes it, treats the last comment with silence.

He tilts his head towards the window although he cannot possibly look out of it and recognize, or come to know the green of the grass and the indigo blue of the sky. 

He hasn’t been to the funeral home many times – last time was when Bobby died, thankfully not on a hunt but in a different kind of peace, the natural one – but he has learned to count the minutes separating one event from another and he knows they’re not far. 

He settles deeper into his seat, enjoying the still familiar rumble of the engine underneath his butt.

Dean’s hand is still resting on Sam’s thigh when the car halts to a stop after a few more minutes. After all the fussing in the morning and hurried preparations, one brief touch against Dean’s watch tells him they’re still a bit early. They remain sitting in the car in silence for

 

_the pain was unbearable when Dean came to._

_He couldn’t see, that was the first thing he registered, but the warm hand covering his calmed him enough to not scream in panic. It was large, and calloused, and Dean hoped it would be Dad’s, but it was Bobby’s voice that came to him._

_“Hey, boy,” Bobby said quietly, his voice lower than usual, and Dean jerked in both pain and surprise._

_“Hurts,” he mumbled through gritted teeth, wishing the pain to be replaced with something else. It felt as if his face was on fire; well, the upper part of it, he could shape his lips around whines just fine. But his eyes… his eyes hurt, and the darkness surrounding him was not soothing to the pain._

_It felt as if someone was pressing a burning knife against his eyes, dragging it from above his eyebrows and across his face and down the cheeks. At the same time, it felt like the bandage covering the wounds was suffocating him, and were his hand not gripped in Bobby’s, he would try to scratch at it and peel it off so he could breathe. Gasping as another wave of stinging pain washed over him, his chest heaved in a different sort of hurting – an abrupt, sudden stabbing sensation prevented him from inhaling sharply._

_“The wolf crushed your ribs when it fell on you,” Bobby informed him, and perhaps if Dean weren’t so busy fighting off tears, worried their saltiness would hurt him further, he would realize that once again, they refused to treat him like a child – like the eight year old boy he was. At the back of his mind, he wanted half-truths; he did not want to remember the heavy animal falling on top of him after slashing his face open._

_After Bobby mentioned it, it was impossible not to remember it all, horrible eyes lurking through key holes all the way to the bared teeth of the monster staring down at Dean’s face, as their sharp tips glistened in the setting sun._

_“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asked in a panicky voice. His memory betrayed him and refused to remember details, other than the pain and the horror he felt, but he could still recall Sam’s screaming in the background and the gunshot._

_Bobby’s hand came down on Dean’s repeatedly in a pat. “Now dontcha worry yourself about him, Dean, he just went to take a piss is all. He’ll be here any minute. Sure he’ll try to jump on you when he sees you’re awake.”_

_“And Dad? Did he kill it? Did it kill him?” he asked frantically, shooting one question after another, breathless, every word painful in some way – if it didn’t stretch his mouth and the wound almost touching it, it hurt different parts, it hurt his mind, the single thought of his family being dead._

_“Your Dad’s a good hunter, he took care of it. Just a shame he didn’t show up a minute sooner.”_

_“Is he here, too? Will he be here any minute?” Dean inquired, once again desperate to scratch the bandages off and get rid of that absolute darkness, to look at Bobby’s face as he sought familiarity, the lack of which he felt so close to his heart._

_Silence followed, one that could have made Dean wonder whether Bobby was still there, if it weren’t for the hand still pressed down on Dean’s._

_“He’s in Montana. Got a good lead on the demon. He didn’t want to leave ya, but…” he trailed off then; he probably realized his voice would give him away and tell Dean what he really thought of his father leaving his son like this._

_Dean would have perhaps reacted in some way, as he felt so alone like this, abandoned almost, even with Bobby by his side. It was the darkness, Dean told himself, and the pain, that made him desire contact and other people gathered around him to ease the reality of this all. He wanted Sammy and Dad and Ellen and for the first time in years, he found himself eager to have Mom by his side, even though he knew very well she was dead._

_Just as Dean was about to open his mouth to request something, anything to ease the pain, and ask about the awful itchy bandages, Sam barged into the room._

_Dean didn’t know how Sam realized what was happening, as both he and Bobby were quiet at that moment, but Sam knew immediately that Dean had come to, and he was climbing on the bed seconds later, Bobby had to catch him by the waist and make him sit further from Dean’s side so he wouldn’t hurt his ribs._

_But Dean didn’t complain even as Sam broke the rule and moved forward, his arm soon leaning against Dean’s ribcage loosely as he told the attack from his point of view, exaggerating, talking about monsters and blood and Dad being a hero._

_It was only later, when Bobby thought Dean was asleep because he had been so quiet – Dean, however, was just gritting his teeth not to let out any noises indicating pain so as not to wake Sammy up._

_Dad called, must have asked about Dean’s condition, and after a few relatively cheerful words on how Dean finally woke up, there came something else. Bobby started talking about how the doctors couldn’t save him completely, how his eyes got damaged and pupils ruined completely, and true fear gripped Dean tight and he realized how fatal all this was when Bobby said that Dean’s eyes, while there, were gone._

_It was then that Dean realized the darkness surrounding him wasn’t temporary, and that the bandages wouldn’t take it away once taken off; that he actually lost_

 

his balance momentarily, but Sam is right next to him to grab hold of his forearm.

“Looks like I’ll never get used to walkin’ through graves,” Dean comments dryly into Sam’s ear, mocking himself rather than thinking about the people behind them, following them to the spot they had paid for and where they will lay John to eternal sleep.

“You can hold on to me,” Sam offers quietly so others wouldn’t hear.

“No, I’m fine. I can follow you.” 

Sam doesn’t argue; he has learned his lesson, after all, Dean knows what he can afford and knows when to admit defeat, and as much as he hates carrying his white mobility cane, he’s got it with him now. 

Dean doesn’t have a problem following Sam closely. His ears never fail him and Sam’s boots seem to crunch the old dry leaves separating the graves. He hears him even through the constant murmur of the other people attending – he can hear multiple groups chatting quietly and Sam has told him there are over a dozen people – quite the surprising turn out for a hunter’s funeral, for someone who never lingers.

Halfway through the ceremony, Dean is not really listening to what is being said. The sun is now higher up in the sky and Dean feels squeezed and uncomfortable in his suit, his temples slowly getting wet in sweat. His sunglasses will start sliding down his nose soon.

Still, somehow, even though he is lost in his own fidgety state, he knows that Sam is listening and it’s affecting him; he can sense the tension as it radiates off of Sam. 

They are standing side by side, Ellen and Jo a few feet behind them, both of them used to this life enough not to shed tears – not in public, at least. Dean reaches out and slides his fingers down Sam’s forearm until they rest against his wrist, and he presses his palm down against Sam’s pulse, his fingers clasping the wrist in a slight grip.

He hears Sam sigh, and it’s the only thing around him – the occasional word or the prayers included – that can compete with the constant chirping of the birds nestled in the trees surrounding the cemetery. 

The ceremony seems to last forever till they lower the empty coffin to the ground and Dean somewhat leads Sam, still grasping his wrist in a protective gesture, to pick up the ashes afterwards. Sam murmurs the urn is a deep grey as if colors meant something to him, as if he didn’t lose sense of the color spectrum years ago, but Dean simply nods and lets Sam carry it. 

“Your father was a fine man,” an unfamiliar voice comments as everyone slowly leaves the cemetery and each and every one of them stops by Sam and Dean to give their condolences.

“Thank you,” Dean responds, not irritated enough to disagree, but not caring enough to ask about the stranger’s name. It’s possibly one of the few people that John never screwed over for his benefit – the Winchester brothers don’t want to ruin that.

“John left some of his things at the Roadhouse,” Ellen tells them when it’s her turn to speak.

“I’ll pick ‘em up in a week or so, if that’s okay,” Sam promises while Dean observes, although solely with his ears. 

He’s getting sweatier; he doesn’t like the presence of others and he’s not used to being out in the open, not anymore. Not with an event like this, at least; the occasion makes him weary as well, and sweat is now covering his back, pooling in the crooks of his elbows.

He wishes he could take the suit off and he wishes it would be okay to rest his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, if only for a bit, but while they’re happy in private, they simply cannot be happy in public. It doesn’t matter that this wouldn’t be all that happy, just a soul seeking comfort with someone it knows well.

Frozen in his spot, Dean is left to having to wait until everyone is gone, and Ellen is not the only one – Jo follows, and after her, at least four more people walk up to them before they are left by the cemetery gates alone, except for the birds still chirping their lives away.

“Kinda can’t believe no one showed up to tell us how happy they are he finally bit it,” Sam comments because he knows Dean needs to hear irony now in order to deal with how serious everything has been for the past hour or so.

“I know,” Dean joins in, latching on to the dark humor right away, patting Sam’s back.

For a second, he considers giving Sam his condolences, but they have given each other that in the past few days plenty – in little silent kisses, in backs pressed against chests in the early morning hours, in rummaging through old photos and Sam describing them to Dean, in sitting out on the patio and drinking one beer after another like they used to after a hunt. It feels like the biggest hunt of their life is over, with John dead. There is nothing to race towards, nothing to worry about, for now they only have each other and the love between them.

“Let’s go,” Dean decides for both of them, and aware that the rest of the people are probably still hanging around, catching up with each other as funerals are often the place where hunters gather, he reminds himself not to hold Sam’s hand in his. 

They get to the car in a minute, Dean’s cane catching on the metal quietly.

Dean opens the backseat door and takes a tentative step back as Sam carefully places the urn in there, just under the seat. Dean than throws his cane in, lacking said carefulness completely, his hatred for the thing obvious. He cringes when it doesn’t stay on the backseat but rolls over and bangs against the car’s floor, the thump loud enough to draw a gasp out of his mouth as

 

_he sat up in his bed abruptly, jolting awake. He did not know where the thump came from, only that it echoed through his room and brought him out of his sleep._

_At thirteen years old, he should have been past night terrors, but waking up to darkness, even five years after the accident, was terrifying. At thirteen, Dean was still used to opening his eyes in the middle of the night and recognizing at least the furniture around him; blinded, he could not handle waking up to strange sounds._

_The thump didn’t repeat itself. After the first few minutes which Dean spent trying not to make up various scenarios (there was someone in his room, waiting to attack, sharp teeth and all; there was someone in the house, lurking around, enjoying the inviting dark of the shadows; there was someone, something creeping up the stairs to murder them all and blind them and bash their heads in and Dean couldn’t do anything to help because he couldn’t see the flash of white teeth in the dark now), he managed to calm._

_When he heard the shower going downstairs, the pieces clicked together easily enough – Dad probably got home, and even though the idea of him no longer offered peace, the idea of possible fresh food, or money to order some, was calming enough._

_Despite that, Dean couldn’t fall back asleep, even though the sound of the shower was distant enough for him not to mind it._

_After a few minutes of consideration, he shuffled out of his bed. The best thing about this was that Dean was quiet – patient not to run into things, familiar with the house, and he didn’t need to turn the lights on because they wouldn’t be of much help anyway._

_It took him more than just a minute to escape his room, bare feet light but wary on the old wooden floor and its mysterious, deep creaks, but he did get out eventually and his hands, flailing for the doorknob, managed to close the door behind him without much sound._

_He walked up the hallway, counting steps in his head, one two three Sammy’s door to the left, as he learned years ago when similar dreams and thumps woke him up and he needed comfort but couldn’t give himself any, his mind an enemy at the beginning of this dark, sightless journey, not a friend._

_He had walked up this hallway many, many times, this was before they all started hunting and moving around, and Sammy’s door always stood open just an inch as if for Dean’s fingers to slide in and help himself slip in._

_He found the door open this time as well, and he slipped in just like he had so many times before, although not recently. His gut refused to settle, though, his heart still beating in a furious panicked pace, and Sam’s warmth was the only thing that could calm Dean down during nights like those, just like Sam’s hands were the only ones that could stop the shaking or release the panic, just like Sam was the only one that knew Dean needed to catch his breath on his own and it would do no good to interfere. Sam had always been the one who understood and didn’t see Dean’s blindness as something that had a claim on him, and perhaps that’s why he had gradually become Dean’s safe place._

_He worked his way to Sam’s room and walked through it quietly, the carpet muffling Dean’s steps. Underneath his fingers, Dean felt the closet that stood close to the door, then the wall, then Sam’s shelf with books, then the nightstand and then, as he bent slightly, the edge of the bed._

_He crept forwards with his hand to find out where the sheets were and whether Sam was sleeping close to the edge, but his fingers found the sheets easily and Sam was facing the wall, curled up close to it._

_Dean carefully made his way into the bed and threw the covers over his shoulder, but however quiet he had tried to be, it woke Sam up anyway, as he was as sensitive to outside impulses as Dean, if not more. He had been, after all, the one asleep, waking up to his brother’s face being torn apart by a werewolf, when he had no idea there was such a thing._

_Sam rolled around abruptly, hitting Dean in the thigh with his pointy bony knee, and his hand flew out as if in defense, stopping on Dean’s face._

_Sam’s fingers lingered there, unmoving at first but then exploring, running close to the scars that decorated more than half of his face. “Dean?” he breathed out and finally took his hand away, although its sleep-warm fingertips could have stayed a little bit longer and heated up the cold of Dean’s scars._

_“Yeah,” Dean whispered back, trying to imagine how Sam was staring at him in the dark of his room, perhaps seeing the silhouette of Dean’s sleepy hair, but failing._

_“Did you have nightmares again?”_

_Quiet acknowledgment that this had happened multiple times before threw Dean off for a second, but then he remembered who he was with and he settled down, his heart now beating just that bit slower._

_“No. Dad came back home and woke me up,” Dean told him, still in a whisper._

_He could hear Sam’s frown in the way he fidgeted and shuffled closer to Dean, a deep sigh slipping out of his mouth. He was younger than Dean, but carried a greater burden of bitterness towards their father, possibly because Dean was not just blind; he was blind to how unfair some things were in general._

_“Okay,” he mumbled after a bit. “Let’s go back to sleep.”_

_Sam’s hand rested on the pillow, perhaps in between their tired faces, and Dean caught it in his own, now absorbing its comforting heat. After a while, when their Dad has settled down as well, gone to sleep perhaps, Dean was able to relax and consider sleep._

_Ready to accept that the darkness wouldn’t change, will be just as it had always been, because he could now barely remember his life in colors, he closed_

 

the backseat door and leans against the car, heaving a quiet sigh as Sam joins him.

“What’s up?” Sam inquires, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s slightly, but demandingly enough so that Dean feels it all over his body, not just in the one single spot they’re touching at. 

He shrugs, though, the fabric of his suit rubbing against Sam’s. “Just don’t wanna go home yet. You think we could drive out?”

“And go where?” Sam counters, indicating that once the road might have been their home, but for quite some time now, it has been an actual place they can come back to and it’s unreasonable to deny that or to refuse to take the familiarity when needed, especially on a day like this.

Another shrug. “I dunno, Sammy, out of town. To freakin’ relax for a bit. I know what you’re gonna say,” he adds quickly, gesticulating, reaching out with his hand but not giving Sam the comfort of turning his face to the side to give him a vague idea that he’s looking at him. “You’re gonna say, we can relax at home, yadda yadda. But let’s drive out, have some nasty food, sit out for a bit.”

Dean knows what Sam wants to say. But Dean, you couldn’t see the sky anyway. But Dean, we can order tons of takeout food. But Dean, the gas is expensive and we’re running out of money.

It’s not about either of that – it’s all nostalgia taking its toll on him. He could be worse, he could have had that panic attack he sure as hell was leading up to; wanting a burger out of town, near some freaking highway like old times, is not the worst option. He didn’t have his sight when they were young and driving around, but he still remembers the moments fondly, and it makes him think of family – true, Sam has always represented that, but still, it connects them all somehow in Dean’s mind.

Perhaps Sam can feel that, because even though he for sure wants to say all those words, maybe not via words but via touches and slight sighs that would annoy Dean enough to change his mind, he doesn’t do neither.

There is a sigh, however. 

“Okay. Get in the car,” Sam half-commands, his voice almost reproachful.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, and if they weren’t in public, he would lean in and press a kiss in the corner of Sam’s mouth, where his freshly shaven skin meets his lips, the only place that truly feels like forbidden fruit even after all these years, probably because it was the first spot Dean ever got to taste.

He comforts himself with the thought of it and circles the car, the palm of his hand never leaving its metallic surface. 

He jumps in and as he settles in the seat and closes the door with a bang, his right hand goes up to his neck automatically and he starts to loosen his tie at least a little bit, shaking off the suit as well before he traps himself in the seatbelt once again.

Once they’re on the highway, blissfully out of town and relatively far away from the cemetery, Dean rolls down the window and takes off his shades, lets the wind caress his face. He feels like he did when he was nineteen and finally used to

 

_being home alone most of the time. Sam had an awful lot of friends in each town they stayed in for more than just a couple of days, but it was impossible to hate him for it; Dean knew all too well it was because of Sam’s personality, not because he hated being around his brother. True, Sam’s friends were mostly previously friendless geeks, but there were a lot of them._

_Dean opted to spend most of his days in solitude, then, not wishing to interrupt his brother’s chance at having a normal life for once, if only in a for a few days rented house with one broken window and beat heaters that left them cold during the night._

_He still liked going through those rented houses – just as much as he despised existing in tiny packed motel rooms that offered stiff bed sheets underneath his fingers and dusty frames of old paintings that Sam described as ‘ugly as hell’ each time Dean dared to try the walls with his hands and then dared to ask._

_The houses had always been different, though._

_Dean liked to wander through them, inspect each room, savor all of it as they didn’t rent houses all that often, only if Dad’s case seemed big enough for them to linger._

_Dean liked to think he was interested in the house’s history, liked to kid himself that he could tell it as a talented storyteller just by feeling the walls and cushions and the water that poured out of the faucet when he wanted a glass of it. Truth be told, he needed the wandering to understand the house, to not get lost in it and perhaps run face first into a low-hanging lamp._

_After he had gotten accustomed to the proportions of the house, he used to sit in whatever room he got assigned, as he always let Sam choose according to the view – that meant nothing to him, the birds chirped all the same no matter which side the window faced – and polished his guns, dreaming of another hunt._

_He only got to hunt rarely, and only small cases – John didn’t like seeing him getting involved. No matter how distant he was and how much he had always avoided asking Dean whether it hurts or whether his vision was now just as white as his eyes, he had his rules that had to be followed. So he only got to work ghost hauntings, mere burn-the-objects with Sam by his side._

_But that was enough, Dean told himself as he put his revolver back on the table, relying on his ears to tell him where exactly he placed it, and rearranging it when he felt it was too close to the table’s edge._

_He got up on one of those days of solitude, the house wandered through a long time ago. He stood in the middle of the room, indecisive for a second, before making up his mind – he could hear voices, one that he recognized as Sammy’s and other ones, foreign and unfamiliar to him._

_He settled on going to the bathroom – he would only have to get out of his room, turn left and disappear behind the last door down the hallway. The leaking faucet would guide him to it safely, he was more than sure._

_Dean would have made his trip without trouble weren’t it for the voices that carried through the house all the way to the bathroom, because Dean left the door creaked open. If he were ignorant, he would have received the conversation as a background muffled voiceover, but with his ears trained to use instead of his eyes, he could hear everything that was being said._

_Usually, it was cars and bitching, infinite bitching on the school’s teachers, occasionally parents – when that happened, Sammy always rushed to mumble something nasty about their father, Dean noticed._

_This time, they were talking girls._

_Dean found himself listening in without contemplating it twice._

_“I kissed lotsa girls,” a voice said, and a shiver ran down Dean’s spine when he placed it as Sam’s. He stopped the water and leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the edges._

_“Nah, you’re shitting us,” said another boy, his voice jumping over the fifteen-year-old-boy bumps and dangers, one second high, one second low. It resembled Sam’s, in a way, as they were the same age after all._

_“Am not,” Sam argued, in a voice that meant a forthcoming pillow fight when it was just him and Dean. “I could tell you all about it.”_

_“Do tell,” a third voice resonated._

_“Well,” Sam started off, Dean surprised to find his voice to be genuine and honest, as if he really had kissed lotsa girls. “It’s weird at first, cause like, you’re just pressing against someone else’s mouth, y’know. And it’s weird with tongue, too, like, you want to pull away at first, but then she like, breathes out or whatever and leans into you and you lean into her and it’s super sweet. Feels like the whole world belongs to you. And when you touch her, man, feels so nice. Making out is fun, could spend minutes doing it. You believe me now, pussies?”_

_“Ew,” voice number two said._

_“Ew,” voice number three joined in._

_Dean, on the other hand, was completely puzzled. He had no trouble believing every word Sam had said – it was something else that nailed him to his place, making him unable to move._

_He himself had never kissed a girl – or a boy, at that matter. It occurred to him, of course, but his blindness, while he learned to live with it, took from him – it took his ability to talk to people who didn’t know him, who didn’t see beyond the white abyss of his eyes. He felt like he scared people – he had heard gasps and mutterings on occasion, and it always made him feel empty and unwelcome and like he wasn’t whole._

_Dean had done other things, though, often wearing his hand tired, and he was surprised now to feel that Sam’s confession went straight to his dick in a wave of pleasure._

_Without needing to, Dean covered his face with a shaky hand and breathed out, too used to this by now to fight it._

_Sam was the only person that knew Dean and let him know him in return. Dean wasn’t able to recall what Sam’s face looked like back then, and even if he did, it would have been inaccurate – Sam had grown into a young boy, sixteen almost, and everything about him changed. His voice was deeper, for one, and the first time Dean got hard listening to Sam talk, he was confused and scared. The second time it happened, he considered himself lucky to always be able to be with the one he needed and wanted._

_He didn’t waste his time thinking about wrongs and rights and reciprocation and tangled limbs and sweaty messes and bony hips and body heat. Not in reality; he stored it all for gentle fantasies, gentle fantasies of his brother._

_Dean was almost pleased when he realized he could remember everything Sam had said – everything about leaning in and touching, and he knew it was enough to please him in the dead of the night, the only fraction he needed between his hand and his cock. He was already half-hard._

_Being nineteen and unable to release any of his frustration was exhausting._

_Dean was completely lost in this new knowledge – so lost he missed the warning, possibly Sam excusing himself, because all of a sudden, he could hear the doors of the bathroom he still stood in close – still leaning against the sink, the growing bulge in his pants surely obvious._

_Dean could smell Sam’s scent. Sweat. Cologne he didn’t need and therefore used more often than necessary. Apple shampoo, freshly washed hair. Closeness._

_“Were you listening in?” Sam asked, but his voice lacked joking. He was completely serious, Dean could feel it with every pore of his being. He was lucky it was Sam walking in on him, not one of the other guys – he forgot how tiny this house was._

_Dean swallowed, considered Sam’s tone in panic, trying to decide what answer would be least alarming. His system refused to cooperate, though, his mind giving up before even starting to make something logic up._

_“Yes,” he muttered, dropping his armor. “Were you telling the truth?”_

_A short silence. “Was I?” Sam inquired, and Dean could feel him close, could feel his hot breath on his lips. Sam must have been inches from him. They were inches apart, Dean was sure, he could reach out and touch whatever part of Sam’s body he liked. Overcome with this possibility, it took him a moment to realize that this was an invitation – an invitation for Dean to be the one leaning in, and perhaps experience the weird – but it sure wouldn’t feel weird, not when he could taste Sam’s lips without horror and fear._

_Dean knew that he couldn’t think. If he did, he would come up with many reasons why not to do it, and in that moment, boy, did he want to do it. He wanted to do it so badly; his fingers itched with lust and his lips trembled in excitement._

_Abruptly, he moved forwards in a sharp intake of breath._

_One part of him expected a trap – he expected to press his mouth against cold air, expected a sharp laughter and mocking. He should have known Sam wasn’t like that. He could have kissed lotsa girls, but he was pure, not deceiving._

_Dean’s lips crashed against Sam’s awkwardly. He caught the corner of Sam’s mouth in a hurried, stiff kiss, and froze in place. It was weird, but it was the good kind of weird – the kind that makes you lust after more, and more, and more._

_Dean breathed out as Sam stepped closer and his hands hooked on Dean’s hips._

_Dean leaned in, tilting his head to fix it and get it right. They were kissing, they really were, Sam’s bony fingers pressing into Dean’s skin brought him back each time he started to think he was dreaming. He could have flown off the face of the Earth if it weren’t for Sam holding him there. He now truly belonged_

 

on the hood of the car, the sun upon their faces, burgers in their hands, cars blasting past them up and down the highway.

“We don’t need to talk,” Dean announces as if he can feel the air being sucked into Sam’s lungs as he breathes in to speak. He bites into his burger, remembering how they tasted years ago when he still hunted and had a knife on him at all times, and ads, “Let’s just enjoy the view.”

Sam snorts, but doesn’t comment on it, knowing very well that Dean meant _him_ , wanted Sam to enjoy the view because Dean himself can’t.

So they eat silently, aside from when Dean asks for the can of coke to be handed to him.

Sitting on the hood of the old car, their knees bump, and even though Dean can feel the itch of the fabric lying on his skin like an unwanted visitor, he feels good. He almost wishes he could take the urn and spreads Dad’s ashes here, by the road, let the wind take them and spread them across the highway to be caught on other cars’ tires and to be taken in all directions. 

Sam wouldn’t allow it, though, being the keeper. He has kept Dean and his blindness and he has kept him safe all these years; he will want to keep the ashes as well.

It’s sunny outside; Dean can feel the heat slide through the fabric of his shirt and soon he can feel the sweat breaking out as well, even though he abandoned his tie and jacket, left them on the passenger seat.

“Do you ever miss the job?” Dean asks despite not wanting to talk in the first place once he finishes his fries and licks away any remaining grease from the corners of his mouth. He feels the breeze on his face; it’s cold but somehow, it warms his face, and for the first time, he lets himself regret that he cannot see the trees and their shivering leaves, let alone remember their color. The concept of color itself is lost to him now.

There’s a slow hum as Sam scrunches up the wrappers. “Of course I miss it. Some of it, at least.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly, relaxing from where he had grown tense when Sam rests his hand on Dean’s knee gently. 

In a way, Sam must have it harder, Dean is sure of this – after all, Dean has only felt the ghosts, heard the monsters, while Sam had to face them on repeat, each week something new and just that one bit worse than the previous creature they battled. Dean only felt Sam’s terrible struggle with adjusting to this life and coming back to a blind brother who no longer wants to throw knives where he thinks he can hear a rustle; Sam actually went through it.

But it’s difficult not to miss something that, at its core, makes you _you_ , which is what the job essentially is to both of them, disappointments and scars and victories all laid out on the same giant tray.

“I remember my last hunt,” Dean muses, but doesn’t add anything to it – the memory itself is bitter, and he is sure Sam remembers as well.

Coincidentally, it was a werewolf hunt, and while Dean doesn’t have any additional scars to add to the nice collection on his face, he can still remember the all too familiar howl as if the air is carrying it still, slipping it into his ears. _I don’t ever wanna hear that again,_ Dean said that night after the animal was dead and burned and nothing but ashes, much like their father is now, and he placed his knife under his pillow like a little kid to protect him from bad dreams, no longer from monsters.

“Let’s get going, I feel weird sitting here in the middle of nowhere,” Sam admits, but Dean holds him in place for a bit longer, placing his hand on top of Sam’s – just one more memory of the road, of cars passing by uncaring, the world wide around them and full of darkness unlimited to whether Dean can see or not, the wind their only witness.

Reluctantly, he finally lets go.

“Okay,” he breathes out and waits, still sitting on the hood, while Sam cleans up the mess and then pats Dean’s lower back to let him know they’re about to leave.

Back in the car, once again tamed by the seatbelt, Dean feels at peace and strangely fidgety all at the same time, and he seeks the warmth of Sam’s palm again as the engine roars to life. “I love

 

_you still up?” the whisper echoed through Dean’s tiny motel room where it felt like they reached the end of the world and the sheets smelled of oldness._

_Sam’s voice sounded lovely, if Dean had to choose one word to use for it. It travelled through the room no problem and even though he had been on the edge of sleep, it woke him up instantly. Not just the voice, though – the fact that Sam decided to tiptoe into his room in the middle of the night was quite thrilling._

_The days had stretched on and on ever since they kissed. Each town seemed like it was floating on a cloud; one seedy motel after another, one emptied house after another, all of them blurring into one because Dean couldn’t see their reality and so he measured them by his constant want for more._

_And he had wanted more._

_He had thought one kiss would be like a magic trick, like Houdini escaping from those tight handcuffs, he had thought one kiss would be the key to his freedom, and yet he remained locked in the cage of his mind. The mind that demanded more, asked for more, eventually begged for more and would surely let Dean get on his knees and hit every sharp surface as he would crawl through the house to finish at Sam’s gentle mouth._

_Dean didn’t think he would get more, however._

_Sam seemed to be untouched by what happened in that bathroom so long ago, and having him come to Dean’s little room felt good, if nothing else. Dean liked the honesty of bare feet tapping across the wooden floor, gathering dust between toes._

_“Yeah,” Dean replied, finally, and turned around so he was facing the door. He automatically shifted on the bed until he felt the cold wall against which his back was now pressed, creating more space for Sam to settle in._

_More tapping. Dean listened intently with his heart beating fast. Next time Sam spoke, it sounded closer and warmer. “Mind if I sleep with you tonight?”_

_“Get in,” Dean said, much quieter now, his tongue hurrying to deliver the words. He held up the sheets until he felt the heavy weight of Sam’s body resting next to his, and then he laid them over them both._

_“Was I your first kiss, Dean?” Sam inquired and Dean could only imagine the quizzical expression that for sure spread across his face._

_Before Dean could get embarrassed, before he could come up with a sleepy answer, Sam’s lips were back on his and this time, there was no sink that could press into Dean’s back, no friends to make it look like innocent fun, teasing. This was real, and Dean, for the thousandth time, wished he could see Sam’s face, figure it out, notice all the little differences that time laid gently upon it._

_Was there a mole somewhere that wasn’t there that last evening when Dean watched him sleep, antsy? What did he look like when he frowned? What did it look like when his eyes fluttered close into a kiss and a sub-conscious blush covered his heated cheeks?_

_Dean’s palms came to rest on Sam’s face after all, and after he realized that this was going to last and that Sam’s chest was firmly pressed against Dean’s for good, he dared to move his lips. Tasting Sam’s mouth was bliss, but suddenly, Dean’s fingers weren’t enough; he wanted to read his brother’s face with his lips, parted in amazement, and Sam held still._

_He held still when Dean travelled the paths of his cheeks with his mouth, held still when he kissed his forehead, leaned into the touch when Dean’s lips ran down to Sam’s neck and first stopped at his Adam’s apple, only to move lazily to the pulse spot, resting there for seconds on end._

_When Sam’s mouth softly pressed against the scars on Dean’s face, Dean jerked. His immediate response was to escape; no one has ever touched his scars except for himself, in quiet moments of utter disbelief, and to have someone else inspect them almost felt like the ghosts of those claws from long ago came back to finish their masterpiece._

_Sam’s legs were tangled with Dean’s now. “You just did the same thing, I’m doin’ the same thing you did,” Sam breathed against Dean’s scarred skin._

_Dean blinked, even though it meant nothing, even though it didn’t make the darkness disappear. His muscles slowly unclenched and he relaxed underneath his younger brother, and he let him kiss the old wounds slashing across his face._

_For possibly the first time, he didn’t have the capacity to hate the way his face must have looked to everyone, as he let Sam kiss him and trace the rough whitened edges of his scars with his bony fingers._

_“I didn’t just kiss lotsa girls,” Sam admitted after they went back to kissing, and then to touching, and back and forth and back and forth in an endless pleasant circle._

_“What else did you do with lotsa girls?” Dean asked right away, his shyness having been kissed away, a bit of mockery almost creeping into his voice._

_Sam’s hand ran down Dean’s chest and slipped over the hem of his pajama pants, drawing a gasp out of Dean’s mouth as he palmed his cock. “Some of em let me touch em and one let me go all the way. You know what I mean?”_

_Dean was on the verge of letting out a sob, a real sob he only remembered from a few hospital nights and then from a few more at home, muffled by a pillow. It would have been his first sob of pure white pleasure if only he didn’t manage to hold it back. It danced on his lips and then he gulped and it vanished down his throat, settled in his stomach and his dick instead as it twitched between Sam’s fingers._

_He suddenly knew that if he nodded – he didn’t even need to speak, one nod would suffice – he knew that if he nodded, it would mean spread legs and intimacy he never understood before but secretly lusted after._

_He kept quiet, afraid of getting it._

_“She liked it. And I wanna know what it’s like. And I want it to be you.”_

_The words fell apart and it took Dean a while to put them back in order, little soldiers with crooked hats finally standing in line and presenting what was being said in the dark of the night. Dean understood, and closing his eyes, the gesture offering comfort despite everything, as if it shielded him from being seen, he grabbed at Sam’s shoulders, now determined to turn them around and slip in between his brother’s thighs, anticipation of it being the easiest thing in the world building up in him._

_It took a few more breaths crawling out of Dean’s lungs shakily, and Sam waited patiently and quietly for that one nod Dean owed him._

_He willed his body to move, keeping his eyes closed, navigating through touch and Sam’s quickened breath alone, finally_

 

 

nodding in gratitude as Sam hands him his cane, Dean slams the passenger door closed and moves towards the front door. 

He can rely on Sam to park in the same spot every single time, as if it’s a silent agreement between them; just by the curb, two short steps from the driveway, and then it’s only one, two, three… seven steps until Dean reaches the front door and the urge to outstretch his hand finally disappears, although temporarily.

He really doesn’t like the cane.

Sam is the one to open the door for him, the urn surely tucked underneath his arm safely, his free hand holding the door open until Dean slips in.

They have been silent ever since leaving the hood of the car and confessing to each other; the confession, however happy or peaceful they are around each other, is always heavy on them. Somehow, they are not used to saying it out loud, rather through kisses, touches, silences. It’s always like the first time.

Dean stops the moment he’s inside, leaning the cane against the wall and standing barely a foot away from the door. He smiles to himself when Sam carelessly bumps into him, closing it.

“You did that on purpose,” he informs Dean as if it was a secret, and it makes the gentle smile on Dean’s face deepen a bit, settle on his face, as if permanent.

He turns around, listens as Sam slowly places the urn on the shelf near the mirror situated right by the door. He catches the lapels of Sam’s blazer and pulls him in for a wordless kiss. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Dean’s got his brother pressed against the now closed door, the years spent together leaning against his back and urging him forwards, into the kiss.

Deaths have always had this impact on Dean; being a survivor himself, not his birthdays but the deaths of others seem like important milestones and the perfect opportunities to reflect back on everything that happened and didn’t happen.

Devouring Sam’s mouth, his tongue sliding into it easily, Dean presses his hands against Sam’s chest and keeps on kissing him and kissing him and kissing him and it all reminds him of other kisses and other days, not as sunny or just as sunny or sunnier that they have had. He remembers Sam wanting to redecorate and Dean forbidding it because he wouldn’t know his way around the house and would feel like a child learning it again; he remembers dropped spoons and rage fits that bubbled up inside him, soon overflowing, fists shaking and pressed against Sam’s chest, seeking calmness.

He even remembers the day Sam said he would get something in braille carved out on his chest, just this once getting new scars on purpose, and Dean had to laugh his own tears away as he declined and told Sam to please keep his skin smooth, Dean likes it that way and it feels nice.

Dean breathes out and hums into the kiss, pulling away slightly to let Sam straighten his back and regain his balance with their lips still joined.

Letting go of the lapels of Sam’s suit, Dean eventually breaks the kiss and steps away cautiously, as if he couldn’t count on gravity to keep him there.

“Where did that come from?” Sam asks, his tone pleasant enough to make Dean want to lean in for another kiss or to run his hair through Sam’s hair that he has been keeping longish for the past few years. 

“Dunno,” he murmurs with a smirk.

Perhaps he just wanted to wash off whatever remnants of the funeral that the drive out didn’t manage to get rid of, but he doesn’t dare to say it out loud; Dean’s had enough of Dad-related conversations for today, and he knows that he wouldn’t get anything bitter-less out of Sam anyway.

“Do you want some coffee?” Dean asks as they make their way into the kitchen.

“Sure,” Sam responds and as Dean walks up to the counter, Sam taps his ass playfully, and Dean thinks, _Maybe we shouldn’t be like this after our father’s funeral_ , but they have been without him for so long and this feels like old times, like the beginning of everything, that Dean takes it and stores it with the good memories anyway.

He lets the water boil, leaning against the counter while Sam does whatever; peels an apple, searches the fridge for something edible, gets himself a glass of water, exists near Dean in silence.

Remembering their agreement – Dean can prepare the coffee but Sam is the one dealing with the hot water, as they have had accidents and Dean has come to terms with the fact he simply cannot do everything no matter how much he wants to – he doesn’t even flinch when the kettle starts whistling as the water boils. He listens to the whistling instead, increasing in volume, the sound

 

_not a knock but a banging, a pounding carrying with alarming force from the front door to where Dean was sitting, listening to music. It slid over the music easily and grabbed Dean’s attention without problem._

_He jumped to his feet, instinctively going for the knife hiding under his pillow and fishing it out, ripping the sheets accidentally._

_Dean ran from his room to the front door, but approaching it, he slowed down and listened to his own pounding heart and to the stranger behind the door causing all this noise._

_“Who’s there?” he yelled, willing his voice not to tremble, and he felt like a child. If his eyes weren’t just white nothings cuddled in the middle of a collection of scars, he would have been afraid of black eyes staring through key holes again. It was, after all, the middle of the night, and black eyes would have shined in it._

_“Dean!” came from the other side of the door and Dean’s panic decreased and increased at the very same time; it was Sam, he would recognize his voice anywhere, but Sam had keys. Unless he, for some reason, couldn’t open the door himself._

_Dean hesitated for only a second before biting down on his lip and opening the door wide, understanding that it might mean danger._

_Sam’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s forearm the second he hobbled inside._

_Dean smelled sweat, dirt and blood – there was no mistaking the strange irony odor that comes with a wound, at least he would never mistake it for something else._

_“What happened?” Dean’s words rushed as Sam got inside and slammed the door closed, leaning heavily on his older brother. “Where are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”_

_“Shoulder,” Sam hissed, slowly regaining his balance and straightening up, leaning against the door now with his back. Dean wanted to reach out and feel the spot, feel the spot which created the pain and hurt, but he knew better. He caught Sam’s wrist in his palm. “Bullet. I don’t think it went through.”_

_“Okay,” Dean whispered, too worried to ask why yelling and banging was necessary._

_Dean was used to bullets, had caught more than one back when he still hunted, back before he simply gave up on it because it wasn’t worth the risk and facing the enemy blind proved to be too anxiety inducing. Sam caught knives in his skin, claws, iron pipes slammed against his body, but this must have been the first bullet to ever touch him._

_“Okay, let’s go,” Dean uttered again and tugged at Sam’s wrist. He rushed to the bathroom, stumbling and almost tripping for the first time in quite some time, feeling every whimper as if it was personal and inflicted upon his own body._

_Stitching Sam up, cleaning the wound and taking care of him took some time, or rather, Dean took his time with it. Sam guided his fingers with impatience, wanting it to be over, but Dean touched lightly and refused to let Sam patch himself up. For once, he felt it was appropriate that he took care of him, not the other way around._

_Lying down to rest after almost an hour – switching sides of the bed that they shared ever since moving in together, ever since Dean decided to stop hunting, so Sam could face Dean and not put so much weight on his injured shoulder – Dean finally breathed out and relaxed._

_He had never felt such an aura of danger hover over them. When they hunted together, the factor of togetherness played a role, and after retiring, Dean was foolish enough to think the love they felt for each other would keep that togetherness with both of them even when apart. He was wrong, obviously, so obviously wrong, blind in more ways than just one._

_“Maybe I should quit, too,” Sam whispered into the quiet room as if reading Dean’s mind. Their fingers intertwined easily, their joined hands resting on top of the cold sheets._

_Dean wasn’t sure what was expected of him – agreement, refusal, absolute and total denial? Silently, he shuffled on the bed and with all the carefulness he could gather, he kept shifting until his cheek lay upon Sam’s pillow._

_Do whatever you wish to do, Dean said with that. He reached out and saw Sam’s face through his fingers._

_“I could help Dad out from time to time, I doubt he’ll want to retire. Ever,” Sam huffed out a laugh and leaned into Dean’s touch, the cold heels of his feet digging into Dean’s calves for warmth._

_“Yeah,” Dean muttered as his fingers ran down to Sam’s chest and stayed there, protecting the steady heartbeat. It was all he could say; he would be happy, of course, to have Sam near, but it wasn’t his place to say this. If Sam needed nudging at all, Dean didn’t have eyes to see it on his face, as always, he could rely on his gut and his ears and his love only._

_“I think it’s a good idea,” Sam said after all, a few minutes stretching on between Dean’s single word and Sam’s decision. It seemed to be a decision, at least._

_“Are the lights on?” Dean asked, trying to mask and hide his excitement for the days to come, away from John, days to be stolen by the two of them. He could already see them – Sam, the early bird, up at eight and cuddling close to Dean still asleep, now that there was nothing better to do. Was there ever?_

_“Yeah,” Sam confirmed, a smile in his voice. Dean never remembered to turn the lights on – why would he, after all._

_“Turn them off,” Dean commanded gently, his hand already leaving Sam’s chest, his fingers hopping down to his waist, over his hipbone, and to his crotch._

_They liked playing this game – they were both blind in the dark, Sam just as much as Dean, and Dean secretly enjoyed this. Not because he wished this twenty four hour constant darkness upon his brother, whom he loved ever since letting him sleep soundly even though it was only seven in the evening, but because even though blind, they weren’t lost, except for lost in each other._

_And Dean could live with_

 

their coffees in their hands, Dean’s fingers wrapped tightly around it even though it was hot, they walk out of the house and onto the patio.

Dean started off hating this thing – he used to love their backyard as it was, bare and full of weeds. You could carry a chair outside and place it in the middle of it and just sit for hours without any additional comfort, and Dean liked that even though he couldn’t look up at the sky – but it was Sam’s project.

After he retired, his hands shook with boredom, he had to busy himself, and when he suggested this, Dean couldn’t say no. He demanded to be the one deciding on all the colors despite not remembering them; Sam said yes.

The patio is a living breathing thing to Dean now, the companion for lazy Sundays, the friend who doesn’t judge when Dean puts on his headphones and listens to this or that audiobook instead of listening to the birds chirping away annoyingly.

“Do you mind if the urn is on the mantelpiece?” Sam asks cautiously, as if he knew Dean would be happy to have that thing tucked away.

Dean brings the mug up to his mouth and sips on the coffee. “I dunno, man. You decide. You’re gonna be the one staring at the ugly thing every day.”

Silence follows this statement, but then it breaks and shatters into pieces as Sam laughs, the sound hearty and full. 

It pulls at the corners of Dean’s mouth until they jump up in a smile, until his mouth is open and he’s laughing too, even though he doesn’t think what he said was particularly funny.

For the thousand time, he wishes to see the dimples he caught with his fingers once when Sam laughed, and the bitterness swells in him; he laughs and laughs and it dries the tears before they can exist and it soothes said bitterness, at least to some degree.

He will never see the man he loves, but Dean knows he can see everything through him, one touch at a time -- seen but not judged, the scars on his face nothing more but a part of him.

**Author's Note:**

> check out the absolutely wonderful art in all its glory [here!](http://drwtsn.tumblr.com/post/110105731793/reverse-big-bang-2014-15-in-distinctiveness)


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